


Peverell Hall

by stonecoldhedwig



Series: The Marauders' Map [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, James Potter's idyllic childhood, Multi, Peverell Hall, The Potters, description, it's really just a lot of flowery language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldhedwig/pseuds/stonecoldhedwig
Summary: A little taste of James Potter's idyllic childhood, plus a dog in goggles.
Relationships: Euphemia Potter/Fleamont Potter, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: The Marauders' Map [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1326680
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Peverell Hall

**Author's Note:**

> Pt. 5 of my Marauders' Map AU, it doesn't *have* to be read in sequence but if you're new to the AU then a couple of the nicknames etc. won't necessarily make sense. 
> 
> Also this was just an excuse for me to be flowery.

Peverell Hall was golden. 

That was the only way James knew how to describe his childhood home, and the statement rang as true as ever that Friday afternoon in July as he looked out the window of Sirius’ car on their approach. Peverell stood on a ridge above the sleepy, chocolate-box village of Godric’s Hollow. Its buttery-yellow stone caught the summer sunshine and glowed like the Hollow’s own, personal shining citadel on a hill. James beamed. He was home. 

Peverell had been in James’ family for generations. He wasn’t, as he often pointed out, from any kind of particularly austere bloodlines like Sirius was; Peverell wasn’t so much a family seat as it was an accidental heirloom. Once upon a time it had been a farm, and the oldest part of the building was the original, low farmhouse from the Wars of the Roses, which now housed Euphemia’s art studio. Over the centuries, Peverell had been adapted and extended, with a Tudor extension here and a Jacobean addition there, and a Georgian front that had finally turned it from Peverell Farm to Peverell Hall. It made, on the whole, zero architectural sense. James utterly adored it. 

There had been a fire in the east wing at some point in the middle of the 19th century, leaving one end of the house in ruins. It looked like someone had taken a knife to one corner of a block of butter. It wasn’t until Monty inherited the place from his father that any work was done to try and restore the east wing; it now sported oak beams and sheets of glass in the gaps between the stone. Monty had made it his library, covering the walls in books and turning the remnants of the upper floor into a mezzanine study. James had many a fond memory of sitting on the sagging blue sofa at the far end of the room, being bathed in the sunlight, reading a book as Monty snored into his newspaper beside him. 

Sirius turned the car onto the long gravel drive. To their left between the drive and the garden wall was a flat stretch of lawn where, back in the day, James would mark out a try line to practice for rugby games. To the right, the vibrant gardens sloped gently down to a small stream, beside which stood a building, the same colour as Peverell. Once, it had been the farm’s water mill. Now, it was home to Monty Potter’s lab. Ignotus Spirits were produced elsewhere nowadays, but the genius, the _magic_ of Monty’s distilling business—that still all happened right by the stream at Peverell. 

Sirius pulled the car to a stop next to a battered Land Rover with no hubcaps, outside the bright red front door with the little gold lion knocker. James peered at it. For the first time in a long time, he thought his parents might have actually bothered to give it another lick of paint; there was no crumbling by the hinges and no flakes of crimson on the front step. 

“Have they jazzed up the door?” Sirius asked, pulling off his sunglasses and squinting at it. 

“Think so,” replied James, hauling himself from the car and stretching. “Clearly our visit has been greatly anticipated.” 

“Oh yeah, like your parents don’t love the two of you coming home every single time it happens,” Remus teased good-naturedly. He looked over the grounds towards the stream. “Do you think your dad will have finished that damson small batch he was talking about? He emailed me to ask about damson trees in the Middle Ages; I’m slightly terrified he might have decided to use some really old school techniques.” 

James laughed and moved to the car boot, grabbing his weekend bag. “Surely I’ve told you about this idea he has for doing a Peverell heritage range with the company—different gins and vodkas inspired by the history of this place. It’s why he made that godawful apple gin last summer.” 

Sirius groaned. “Don’t remind me. I’ve honestly never thought I would die from a hangover more than the morning after that.” 

“Weakling,” replied James , but there was no heat behind the word. He jerked his head towards the door. “C’mon.” 

It was just the three of them visiting—well, four if you didn’t forget Snuffles, and who could? The girls had taken the morning flight to Scotland for Mary’s hen party ahead of her wedding to Reg Cattermole at the end of the following month. Left with some spare holiday time from work, James had suggested that he, Sirius and Remus jump into Sirius’ car and meander down to the West Country. They had done just that, speeding down the motorway with the windows open, the radio blaring. Snuffles had adored it. Sirius made him wear eye protection if they were going to let him hang his head out the window, tongue lolling— _“what if something goes in his eye, Prongs!”_ —and so they’d made their way to Peverell Hall with beaming smiles, excitement for the weekend, and a dog in goggles. 

James pushed his keys into the front door. He stepped inside, the others following. It was quiet, peaceful, and immediately he caught the scent of wood polish on the floors, lavender from a huge bouquet on a sideboard, and somewhere in the background, the rich aroma of cake. They dumped their bags in the cavernous hall. From a dilapidated chaise longue on one side next to the drawing room door, a small, elderly, one-eyed terrier lifted its head and growled irritatedly at them. 

“Hi Mad-Eye!” James cried in a singsong voice, walking over to scoop the dog up into his arms and cradle her, despite her protestations. Madeleine—as she had once been known—was James’ childhood dog, and extremely bad-tempered; Sirius said he’d also be bad-tempered if he’d had to share a house with a teenage James. She pitched a battle with a combine harvester when James was in his late teens and lost an eye in the process, and had been known as Mad-Eye ever since.

“Hi boo,” continued James, grinning down at the disgruntled dog. “Did you miss me?” 

“Every day since you moved out has been pure bliss for her, Jem,” Sirius said casually, reaching over to scratch the dog between the ears. “She’s fucking furious that you’re home.” 

“Rude.” 

James released Mad-Eye back to the floor and watched as she walked up to Snuffles, sniffing suspiciously. It wasn’t the first time they’d met. Snuffles, despite being approximately five times the size of Mad-Eye, eyed her warily. He cleared remembered the last time they’d shared the house together, when Mad-Eye had spent the whole weekend simply staring at Snuffles to the point where he would only sit on Sirius’ lap. Mad-Eye’s distemper didn’t just extend to humans; there was, essentially, no creature on Earth who was spared the dog’s judgement. Well, almost no creature. The one person Mad-Eye simply adored, much to James’ chagrin, was Lily. 

Satisfied that Snuffles still had the fear of God in him, Mad-Eye gave a short, gruff _woof!_ and turned, trotting towards the back lefthand corner of the hall. James watched her go for a moment, a grin on his face. 

“Atta girl,” he muttered and then, shoving his hands into his pockets, followed where the little dog led.

The three young men stepped down into the long back hall and made their way towards the kitchen. With every step forwards, that delicious smell of cake became richer and stronger. James felt his stomach grumble. 

The kitchen was Peverell Hall’s beating heart. Never mind the drawing room or the library or the billiard room, guests were told that if you wanted to find the Potter family, look in the kitchen. It was a large, square room, with a low ceiling and beams running across the ceiling—they were in the Tudor part of the house—with bright copper pots and bunches of dried herbs hanging from them. Where the fireplace had once been, a crimson red Aga sat gleaming. On the far wall was an enormous Welsh dresser, the open shelves of which were covered in clutter: a large pot of PVA glue; three canvas plimsolls in varying sizes; two pawns and a knight from a chess set; and a large stuffed chicken, among other things. 

Sitting at the kitchen table, sketchbook in front of her, the table littered with oil pastels, was Euphemia Potter. Her hair—once red, now shimmering white—was piled atop her head, fixed in place by two long paintbrushes, and her wrists jangled with row-upon-row of silver bangles. The front of her linen work apron was covered in paint and what looked suspiciously like paw prints. 

“Hullo, Mama,” called James cheerily. She looked up and quickly got to her feet. 

“Hello, darlings!” Euphemia said, her warm smile lighting up her light grey eyes. She embraced James, squeezing him tight, and then stepped back to survey him. “You look well, Jamie. Better than you did last time I saw you.” 

“Thanks, Ma, for that backhanded compliment,” laughed James, and gave his mother an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Where’s Pa?” 

“Out in the garden. He’s done quite a lot of work on the dell since you were last home, you’ll want to see the progress he’s made.” Euphemia moved to hug Sirius and Remus, kissing them both on the cheek. “It’s lovely to have you all here, we’re going to have such a wonderful weekend. Did the girls all get to Scotland alright?” 

“Yeah, Marlene texted when they landed,” replied Sirius. He went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice, not noticing the delighted glimmer in both Euphemia and James’ eyes that he still felt like this was home enough to take it without needing to ask. Snuffles, similarly, seemed right at home—he had crossed the room and was attempting to fit all of his rather long limbs into Mad-Eye’s fairly tiny basket. 

“Marls and Dorcas are dating now, Ma,” James said, opening a battered cake tin on the scrubbed wooden table and peering into it suspiciously. “Is this lemon drizzle?” 

“Yes, it is, and it’s for pudding tonight, so stop putting your mucky paws into my cake tin.” Euphemia swatted at James’ hands with a tea towel. She moved to the Aga, setting a kettle on one of the plates and turning back to face them. “Marlene and Dorcas, you say? Lovely young women, both of them—such striking beauties! I must ask them if they’ll sit for a portrait one day.” 

They chattered happily with Euphemia for a little while, sipping on hot cups of her famously-strong tea. They filled her in on the bizarre party at Dumbledore and McGonagall’s that they’d been to a couple of weeks previously, and Euphemia threw her arms around Remus in congratulations when he told her he’d be starting a PhD in September. The time passed easily, lazing around the scrubbed wooden table in the centre of the room. 

The clock on the dresser struck four. It let out an exhausted wheeze, a sort of attempt at a chime, and Euphemia looked up. 

“Go on.” She stood and topped their mugs up before nodding towards the back door. “Go and see Pa so that I can get on with supper. He’s so excited to see you.” 

“He’s in the dell, right?” James asked, making his way to the door and pausing just before he had to duck below the threshold. 

“That’s right. Tell him I need him later to pick some wine for tonight, would you?”

“Righto,” called James as the three boys left. 

“God, it’s so nice to be out of London,” said Sirius, throwing his head back to get the fullness of the summer sunshine on his face. “I feel like my lungs are slowly dying every time I leave the house.” 

“They probably are,” Remus replied cheerily, slipping on his sunglasses. “London has some of the worst air pollution in Europe.” 

“What a lovely fact to keep memorised, Mouse.”

They crossed the small patio outside the door and made their way through the kitchen garden. If the smell of the kitchen had been enough to set James’ stomach grumbling, then the kitchen garden made his mouth water. Everything was so verdant and fresh after being in London. Enormous rhubarbs sat waiting to be harvested, a shock of pink stalks below frilly green leaves. Tomato plants climbed canes towards the sun, their jewel-like fruits all but bursting out of their red and orange skins. The beds of strawberries and the gooseberry bushes by the far wall were ripe for picking as well; James wondered if he could convince his parents to let them take some back to London at the end of the weekend, rather than give over all the crop to one of tow things: Monty’s experimental spirits, or Euphemia’s experimental jam. 

They reached the gate, and the kitchen garden was forgotten in an instant. They’d come to James’ very favourite place. The dell was nestled into the hillside just above the house; a cleft in the earth, with a level, mossy shelf about halfway up. Trees grew out of the sloping sides and for many years, it had been left to Mother Nature to do what she would with it. The only flowers were the carpets of bluebells and daffodils in the spring, or the layers of leaves in the autumn. Or, at least, that’s how it had been the last time James had been home. 

“Hello, Jamie boy,” Monty said, straightening up from a newly-dug flowerbed and giving his son a beaming grin. He mopped his forehead with a bright red handkerchief and ran a hand through his shock of wayward, bright white hair. The gesture did little to control it. “Was the drive down ok?” 

“Yeah, grand, Sirius did all the driving,” grinned James, and gave his father a fierce hug. Monty was a little more portly than he had been in his younger days, but no less strong, and so lifted James square off his feet as he hugged him, before returning him to the floor. 

“Honestly, you spoil him, Sirius,” Monty tutted, pulling both Sirius and Remus into equally-strong hugs. “Get him insured on your car so that you don’t have to do all the driving.” 

“Over my dead body will your son be going anywhere near the driver’s seat of my car,” snorted Sirius, winking at James and earning a middle finger in response. “We all remember how many times it took for him to pass his driving test.” 

“Lest we forget the incident at the go-karting place we went for his birthday one year, either,” added Remus darkly. 

“Thank you, by the way, for those absolutely fascinating articles about Medieval monasteries, they were really terrific,” Monty said, clapping Remus on the back a little too firmly. “I think I’ve managed to narrow down the varieties of damson that they might have had around here before the farm was built. James’ll have told you about my little project to immortalise Peverell’s history in drink…” 

James left Sirius and Remus nattering with his father, and wandered around the dell. Euphemia had been right—Monty had done considerable work on it since James was last home. As a child, it had been James’ kingdom. Outside the bounds of his father’s riotous flowerbeds, bursting with colour, and beyond the gate that led to the verdant kitchen garden, the dell had been the place where James’ imagination had run riot. The Prewett brothers had been his childhood companions from school, and he had many a fond memory of the three of them, bedsheet capes tied around their necks, sword fighting between the trees. One summer when James was around eight or nine, he and his father had spent a month building a large treehouse in one of the sturdy oaks. It had been christened the Castle in the Kingdom of James. 

Now, the dell was something quite different. A set of stone steps had been set into the central gully. Flowerbeds had been dug here-and-there into the moss, and out of them grew succulents in colours ranging from dark green to lilac. Long ropes of trailing plants spilled out of notches in the sides of the earth, acid green and vine-like, looking almost as though they might come to life and wrap themselves around an unsuspecting wrist or ankle. In the centre of the little mossy shelf, a reflecting pool had been built; around it, carefully shaped pieces of local stone finished it off. With lanterns dotted around, hanging from trees or nestled in the foliage, Monty had turned the dell into what felt like an enchanted grotto, a forbidden forest. 

He had, however, left the Castle in place. Actually, James thought as he looked up at it, his father had improved the thing. Gone was the somewhat tattered roof and the frankly dangerous rope ladder up to the platform. Instead, Monty had constructed a neat spiral staircase around the trunk of the tree that led up to an opening in the Castle’s floor. Fairy lights were wound around the handrails on each side of the stairs. 

James jumped as he realised his father was standing beside him. He’d not heard Monty’s approach, and glanced over his father’s shoulder to find they were alone. Sirius and Remus had obviously gone back up to the house. 

“The boys have gone to pressure your mother into opening a bottle of something wet and alcoholic,” Monty said, eyes twinkling. “But come on, I’m desperate to hear what you think. Have I done the Kingdom of James proud?”

James beamed. “It looks incredible!” he nodded at the reflecting pool. “That’s a nice touch, by the way.” 

“Oh, you like it? I was thinking about how to include something to do with history and memories in here. From my research, I think the stream originally flowed down here—“ Monty gestured from the top of the dell down towards the gate— “and it was diverted to where it is now when the farm was built. It felt right to bring some water back in here. Gives you a place to be reflective, pensive, don’t you think?” 

“It’s a great idea. The Castle’s looking better than ever, too—“ James nodded up towards what had once been a rickety treehouse. “Remember when we built it?”

“I remember you falling out of it more than once in the process, yes,” reminisced Monty. “Ma nearly killed me. _Your only son!”_ he mimicked Euphemia’s voice and laughed. “You were absolutely fine, you were a wee thing still. At that age, you bounce.” 

James laughed, crossing his arms comfortably as he looked up at the canopy. Anyone looking from a distance would have been able to tell that there stood father and son. They had the same wayward hair that stuck up at the back—in fact, if anything, Monty’s was wilder. James had the same broad shoulders as Monty, and stood with his feet planted apart, solid and steady like an oak tree, just as his father did. 

It was more, though, than simply the shape of their bodies or the wildness of their hair that marked them as kin. There was something in Fleamont Potter’s presence that his son carried with him, too. It was an earnestness that some might mistake for innocence or naivety; a kind of curiosity about the world. The pair of them genuinely delighted in the boundless opportunities for discoveries—they were scientists at heart. To both of them, the world was a book waiting to be read, delights on every page. 

“Really,” James said, looking sideways at Monty, “you’ve made a great job of all this. I’m proud of you, Pa.” 

“Your mother’s thrilled with it, too” Monty said with a winning smile. He rested his hands on his hips and looked up at the Castle. “She goes up and paints up there; she says it’s to get a good view of the dell, and to be fair, the stuff she’s produced so far is lovely. But, I think it’s really because she can check me out while I’m working on the plants.” 

“Gross,” laughed James, screwing up his face. “You’re too old for that.” 

Monty wiggled his eyebrows at James and turned, laughing. He beckoned with his hand and began to stroll towards the little gate that led into the kitchen garden. He threw a cheeky grin over his shoulder back at his son. “You’re only as old as you feel, Jamie boy!” 


End file.
